


So, Take Me In Turns Internally

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Arty enough to irritate, M/M, POV Second Person, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:32:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8493535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: ...But the fit was on him, and it carried him right to the crossroads!





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from the song, Nocturnal Me, by Echo and the Bunnymen. The quote in the summary is from the play, The Black Rider.  
> I am not involved in the production of Twin Peaks, and this school is not involved in the production of Twin Peaks. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and goodnight.

It's a crackle in the dark. These things just come to you, in sudden warmth. Moving down your body, reverse vertigo. Pinning you to the ground in solid knowledge. It's very rarely, now, that you even notice the reaction; instead, slipping straight into it like a welcoming bath. This time, you do, though, new truth gloving your brain.  
You almost gasp aloud, but you swallow the breath that wants to escape. “How long?” you ask, as though not fully sure of what you're asking, the words coming out of their own volition.  
“How long, what?” Harry asks, already closing up. He knows.  
“You know.”  
“Well, why don't you just say it, anyway?”  
Is this what Albert felt? What Albert might have, for all you know- and you do know- been courting? You're not Albert, though, and you don't say things to be cruel. You don't know why you say them, but it's not to be cruel. “How long have you and Hank been involved?”  
He could deny it. You wish he would.  
“You have to know the answer to that question,” Harry says more evenly, “if you noticed a change, and felt the need to say something.”  
You want to tell him that it doesn't always work that way, but you're suddenly tired, and don't want to explain things to Harry. “A couple of weeks,” you say quietly.  
“That's about right. Now, my question to you, is what are you going to do about it?”  
“A man's personal life is his own business.” Which you know to be a lie, but Harry's still in a position where he's allowed to believe it.  
“All right, then,” Harry says, relieved, you're sure, to be able to leave it at that.  
If only it were that easy.  
It consumes you. It consumes you, as all new knowledge does, especially if it's somehow painful. You wake, always with a start, and it's the first thing you think of. You're there again when Hank comes to sign in. He looks at you. You look back at him. You hold his gaze for so long that he'll have to be the first to look away. Instead, he winks. You watch him leave Harry's office. Walking that way, he has to feel you looking. Your eyes on his shoulders, his back, his ass. The back of his neck. His legs. One hand, the domino key chain swinging from it. You feel sexual hunger in the way you do the other kind, sharpening you like a knife. Metallic spark. Harry's watching you watch Hank. You know. You can feel it.  
Your practical experiences in this area are few, so you find it difficult to even speculate. In your mind, Harry and Hank, looking so similar, almost blend into one person. Only one has a face at a time. Scent is easier to distinguish. Harry's is the raw, electric scent of the the wind, the chambers of the forest. Hank smells of cigarettes, leather, cooking grease. Utterly ordinary. One day, you almost fancy that you can smell him on Harry. The smell of hide and combustion with Harry's breath of wilderness. Were they together the night before? Without really asking the question, you know. Not for the first time, you try to imagine how they would touch each other. Your feeling is the blasted vacuum of space. You can imagine how you would touch Harry- but you're not Hank. In all matters, even for the things you know, people have always been to you fretfully opaque. Why can't you just stop feeling this way?  
It must have been the same for Harry. After losing Josie, he must have wanted someone, maybe anyone, and Hank, at least, is familiar. He must have fought it, though. This is what you imagine. Yet, you feel as if you're still missing as essential component. There's something you still don't know.  
If Harry closes off subtly, Hank must notice. In your presence, he begins to push Harry, in ways that no one but Harry and you would notice. Harry does not push back.  
Not where you can see.  
One day, you go to the Double R. You don't tell Harry. Norma brings you your coffee, but you see Hank behind her. He sees you, but is pretending he doesn't. His left eye is bruised. When he's ready, he greets you, and says, “Can you believe it? I actually walked into a door!” You look at Norma. She smiles an inscrutable smile, the one that many women wear when there's a story that they don't want to tell. Later, by coincidence, you'll hear Shelly telling a customer that Hank came home with the shiner the other night, probably after a fight at the Roadhouse. “Norma is p.o.ed,” whispers Shelly, sounding almost delighted about it, “She thinks that Hank's parole is going to be revoked.”  
You can't ask Harry.  
You don't have to.  
It makes you afraid, somehow. Not for yourself. For what, you don't know. You're not even sure if it's really fear, this feeling of being up too high.  
(The wind shakes the boughs of the trees, and they creak around your head. A crown of sound.)  
(Harry's hands on Hank. You know that Harry has a temper. You don't have to imagine that. Imagine, though, him touching Hank in other ways. You still can't fully form the picture. What's blocking you? You don't think of yourself as prudish. Surely, interest negates all of that, anyway. The morbid fascination with propriety.)  
(Harry hits Hank. It's a jab, little more than a slap. Enough to bruise, to shock. Hank grabs Harry, kisses him. Heat cracking ice into blocky knives. This violence delights.)  
At night, your sleep is troubled. You wake. The room's too dark and too large. All of space is reaching toward and away from you. The night is huge and hollow. You're alone, but you're on display. The very furniture can feel your thoughts. They vibrate through the bed frame, into the floorboards. You let yourself imagine it. Harry with his head between Hank's legs. Hank touching Harry. Skin on skin, limbs together like puzzle pieces of the same color. The picture fits together in curves and angles. And comes apart again. They kiss, in your mind's eye, and an odd pain seizes you. You fall asleep again without being aware of it, and you don't dream.  
“I want in.”  
Harry starts. He blinks. “What?” Then, as suspicions present themselves, slowly, “What do you mean?”  
“As you know, I'm aware of your arrangement with Hank Jennings, and I would like, with your permission, to join you.”  
Harry stares at you. It's what you expected. First, he'll have to adjust to the fact of your having asked the question. He can take as much time as he needs.  
He crosses his arms. He shakes his head. “No.”  
“I understand. I misread your initial signals as interest, and assumed that your relationship with Hank was of the more casual kind, which would permit the inclusion of others. I'm sorry that I failed to understand the situation.”  
“No, it's- All of what you said is true. I'm just- Dale,” he shakes his head again, “I'm not going to involve you in that.”  
“Not even if I ask you to.”  
“It's not something you want.”  
“It is, Harry,” you feel something in your voice shift, as though your throat's a mechanism over which you exercise only sporadic control, “I can't stop thinking about it.”  
He blinks again.  
“If it's a matter of Hank not being interested, I accept that, too.”  
“I didn't say that,” Harry says quietly.  
It occurs to you that you should feel nervous, or excited, but you don't really feel anything. Only hunger, again. You move closer to Harry, feeling him incline toward you. “Ask me to come home with you,” you say, too cool for it to be whisper.  
“Dale.”  
“Ask me.”  
“Is that really what you want?”  
“I think you know that it is.”  
“All right, then.”  
“Then, it's a date,” you say, with a smile that even surprises you.  
“If you can call it that,” Harry says, shrugs, leaves the room.  
You let him go.

It's getting to be spring, but the nights are still long and cold. It's a different cold, though, a fidgety chill that wants to get into your bones and make them dance. The air's magnetic, drawing all of the iron in your blood close to the surface, so it whines like a rusted hinge, like a dog.  
“Are you sure?” Harry asks before opening the door.  
You smile, touch his arm. Touch his face, in the dark. Feel him lean in, to such a minute degree that he might not even know that he's doing it.  
Inside, the lights are off. Hank comes out of the dark, a slinky silhouette holding a bottle of beer.  
“Harry,” he says, and you can feel him smiling in the dark, “how considerate of you. How did you know just what I wanted? And I didn't bring you anything.”  
You feel yourself grin, as though from the cold; you, yourself, frigid and perfect.  
“Don't start, Hank,” Harry says.  
“I don't know,” Hank says, jettisoning the bottle on a table as he comes closer, “Maybe he likes that kind of talk. I've known enough screws who liked it a little rough, a little dirty. What about you, Agent Cooper?”  
You grab Hank by the hair, pull his head back, exposing his throat. The sound he makes it one of immediate indignation softening into acceptance. That's good. “Yeah,” you say, “I like that.” You breathe him in, run your mouth up his neck lazily, your grip on him still tight, graze the fount of his pulse with your teeth. When you let him go, he's still for a moment, then smiles, lets out a hooting laugh.  
“All right,” he says, measured, gentle.  
“All right,” you say. You're still smiling.  
Harry's face is expressionless. You lay your hand against his cheek, feel yourself still as you look into his eyes. His hand is on yours. When you kiss him, he presses against you, his whole body against yours, every point of palpitating warmth. Now, you feel what you were waiting to feel. Your knees are weak. You're all but overcome. You feel Hank behind you, his hands creeping inward, over your waist. You move slightly to the side, and he and Harry kiss around your shoulder. You twist your body to look at them. Then, Harry's mouth is on yours again; Hank's hands, at your collar. Your tie slithers away. Your jacket drips down your shoulders. You lean back against Hank. His hands on your hips. You turn around, and kiss his mouth. Someone's hands are on you, but you don't know whose, and you don't even really know where. You just feel it, one long caress, the breath and beat being slowly wrung out of you.  
Harry's shirt is on the floor. Hank's tee shirt is, too. When you touch skin, it's the same as the feeling of the wind, outside: blood calling out and being called. As you mouth Hank's collarbone, Harry unbuttons your shirt. You lean into both of them, and again comes that flush of disorientation: all you feel that grand touch; both of them and neither. Almost as though it's coming from the inside. Like you're touching yourself with their hands. You rub against them, both. Now, your face pressed to the back of Harry's neck as he kisses Hank. You watch, as though through your fingers.  
Have to see/You can't look.  
This is why you're here. To see something.  
In Harry's bedroom, you let Hank bend you over the dresser, pull down your pants, and slip one lubricated finger inside of you. Harry watches, as Hank fucks you close enough to orgasm to make your nerves feel frayed, your bones cracked. He stops, leaves you breathing hot, hollow, helpless. You right yourself, wrap around Harry, kissing all of your breaths into him. He has his hand on your dick, moving slowly. Moving you to the bed, where he covers your body with his. Your hands on his back, fingernails digging in. He bites your shoulder, and the sound that comes out of you is the snarl of the wind in the firs. He moves down, his mouth all over you. Kissing with his teeth.  
“So, you do like the rough stuff,” Hank says conversationally, watching you, touching himself.  
Harry holds your hips as he sucks you. You can still feel the void left by Hank, a rich, raw ache that you know won't be extinguished by the softness of Harry's mouth, not even after you come.  
You're right.  
You feel as though you've been bled.  
“Do that to me again,” you say, turning your head to look at Hank.  
“Ask for what you want,” Hank says, his voice low. You look at him, strange angles in the dark.  
“Fuck me, like you did before.”  
“Suck my dick.” His tone is strangely flat. That happens, sometimes; all affect slips from his voice. You suddenly feel as though you know him very well.  
Harry moves, and you move, and you push Hank back. He lifts his hips, and you pull down his pants. He's already wet. He's content to lie back, almost totally still, and let you do what you like with him. The sounds he makes are soft, almost somnolent. Afterwards, he kisses you, with what you think is genuine feeling. You don't know what's happening.  
You're on your hands and knees.  
“Can you take two?” he asks.  
“I think so,” you say. Still, it takes some effort to get both fingers inside of you.  
The course of true love never did run smooth.  
When it works, though, it really works. Even for having done it earlier, it still hurts. Pain that horrifies you in how much you want it. Needle teeth pricking your nerves, telling you to get away. You push against Hank's hand. You shudder.  
“Harry,” you say, your voice so even it startles you, “come here. Stand there.” You motion for him to stand before the bed, which he does. His expression is unreadable in the dark, but he's giving off fumes of confusion. “Pull down your pants,” you say.  
For a moment, Harry's motionless. Is he looking at Hank? Is he watching you? In this position, you can't tell. You hear the sounds of clothing moving. He lifts up your chin, and you open your mouth. You come with both of them inside of you, a bitter bite that bears only a passing resemblance to orgasm. Yet, you know it for what it is. Harry does, too, soon after. It doesn't even occur to you not to swallow. Your body's returned to you, and all other parts, to their respective owners. For a long while, you can only lie on Harry's bed, in a state of disarray, like something swept in by the tide. You can hear Harry putting some of his clothes back on. You hear the hiss of the lighter as Hank lights a cigarette. The scent makes you think of Albert, and of bodies on his table. Finally, you get up and go to the bathroom. There, you turn on the light, flinching after all of that time in the dark.  
You look in the mirror. To see what's revealed. What greets you is as opaque as ever.


End file.
